


I Fell In Love With A Zombie

by vivisextion



Category: Behemoth (Band), Frankenstein Drag Queens From Planet 13, Murderdolls (Band), Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Grave Robbers, M/M, Necrophilia, Satanic Hijinks, Zombie! Joey, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:28:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22254139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivisextion/pseuds/vivisextion
Summary: The guys have had their fun with their post-mortem groupie of the night. Little did they expect him to wake up, Corpse Bride-style, and he ismad.
Relationships: Joey Jordison/Joseph Poole | Wednesday 13
Comments: 15
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Beyond The Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19996819) by [AllMyStitchesItch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllMyStitchesItch/pseuds/AllMyStitchesItch). 



> This is a idea for a sequel I had after reading this amazing fic by AllMyStitchesItch. You might wanna read that first before this!
> 
> The original fic had Piggy D but he wasn't in the original lineup of Murderdolls so I had to switch it back to Ben.
> 
> Title is based on the old Rejects song that later became "She Was A Teenage Zombie" on Beyond the Valley of the Murderdolls.

The only downside of necrophilia, really, was all the hassle that came after. The four of them had to redress and pack the dead boy back into his coffin, but none of them could be bothered to shovel the earth back on top of him before they stumbled back to their tour bus in a post-coital haze for a long night of drinking and drugs.

Eventually, they tuckered themselves out, like overgrown toddlers, and mostly dozed off where they fell. Wednesday himself landed face first into his bunk, and passed the fuck out.

Wednesday was so deep in his unconsciousness that he didn’t register someone shaking him awake for a good few minutes, and definitely not the fact that the hand on his shoulder was stone cold.

“Wake up, asshole.” 

The same hand was now smacking his face. He groaned and rolled over.

“Fuck off…”

Wednesday peeked one bleary eye open and quickly realised the figure waking him up wasn’t any of his band mates. It wasn’t even the driver.

“Oh, shit… what?”

Acey must have given him some fucked up shit the night before, because unless he was very much mistaken, last night’s post-mortem groupie was standing before his bunk. The dead boy had a scowl on his pierced lips, arms crossed over his chest, and he was _pissed._

Flustered, Wednesday scrambled back until he hit the back of his bunk, cursing up a storm. 

“What the fuck? How-” Wednesday stammered. “No. This can’t be happening. I’m still high, or… or…”

“Believe it,” answered the walking corpse, deadpan. “You mind telling me why I have four guys’ cum inside my ass?”

Wednesday’s brain was desperately trying to clunk into motion, but he’d had a _lot_ to drink last night and that morning. 

“I, uh… we… you see…”

The dead boy rolled his eyes in one graceful motion. “Because there I was, trying to get to the whole eternal slumber thing, when I get pulled out of my grave and dragged into some homo-necro-sexual gangbang-”

“Whoa. Hold up.” Wednesday clutched his temples, rubbing them hard. This was too much to take. “Were you… awake? That whole time?”

“Yeah? One of you fuckers so unceremoniously dumped me on the ground. Must have jostled my eyes open or something.” The zombie waved his hands in careless, exasperated motions. 

Wednesday remembered the dead boy’s cloudy blue eyes, half-lidded in an almost seductive manner, gazing back at him as he’d had his way with the body. The same eyes that were glaring holes into him this very minute. Damn. The guy must have gotten a good look at every one of them. Wednesday scrubbed a hand over his sleep-crusted face. 

“Fucking Ben,” Wednesday grumbled, quick to throw his bandmate under the bus. “He’s always so rough.”

“I’ll say.” The corpse scoffed. “Good thing I don’t feel pain. He was fucking hung.”

Despite everything, Wednesday chuckled. “That he is.” 

Wednesday stared at the once-deceased man, now walking and talking inside their tour bus. He’d been mesmerising by moonlight, but he was even more ravishing now. That alabaster skin, cold like marble, that long, silky jet-black hair, and those full, pouty, blue lips... He even had short, stubby nails, painted black. This living dead boy was so his type it _hurt_. Wednesday had to beat down his arousal, rearing its ugly head even after much too much Jack. 

“Well. Can’t say this has ever happened before…” Wednesday sat up a little more, still in shock. “I’m so sorry, uh…” He looked up at the undead man, confused.

“Joey,” the corpse supplied. 

“Joey,” Wednesday echoed. “In our defense, we didn’t expect you to be uh… conscious. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Gimme a break, I just woke up! My brain wasn’t fully online yet,” Joey explained. “I couldn’t move, let alone talk, but I was awake. By the way, remind me to punch your friend regarding that dig about my cock. I’m a grower, not a shower.”

Wednesday was certain now that one of the guys must have slipped him some kind of hallucinogenic without his knowledge, because this was officially way too fucking weird.

“Hold on one goddamn minute. This doesn’t make any motherfucking sense. I mean, how are you even…?” Wednesday gestured to all of his visitor. 

“How the fuck should I know?” The dead boy threw his hands up in exasperation. “Maybe a magic crow flew over my grave? Maybe some kind of necromantic sex magic ritual that involves four dudes jizz inside you reanimated me?”

“Yes, uh.” Wednesday coughed, mostly to fill the awkward silence. “I apologise for the actions of myself, and my bandmates.”

“Wait.” The annoyed expression slid off Joey’s face. “This is a band? You’re in a band?”

“Why do you think we’re in the middle of nowhere on a tour bus? You think we’re a bunch of necrophiliacs that just ride around looking for graveyards to plunder?” Wednesday answered, a little defensively.

Joey raised an eyebrow. “Sure looks like that, buddy.”

“Well, we’re not. We’re the Frankenstein Drag Queens from Planet 13.” He heard the smaller man snort. “Probably going to change that name soon,” he added quickly. 

“I’ve heard of you guys.” Joey was chewing his lip ring, peering at Wednesday with curiosity rather than hostility now. “Hard to forget a name like that. You’re the horror punk guys, right?”

“Yeah,” Wednesday breathed, impressed. What were the chances the random corpse he’d just fucked was a fan of his music?

“I was in a few bands too.” Joey approached the edge of Wednesday’s bunk, sitting down for the first time. “Slipknot, The Rejects, Modifidious.” 

“I know them!” Wednesday piped up. When you were a small-time band in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, you tended to hear about other small-time bands in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. “Shit. That means… you’re Joey Jordison.”

“The one and fucking only,” the talking corpse concurred, with a strange little bow. 

Wednesday clapped a hand to his mouth in horror as it dawned on him that he’d just raped the dead body of not just a fellow musician, but _Joey fucking Jordison._ The guy’s drumming was legendary, and his death had been news that shook the metal scene to its core.

“I am so, so fucking sorry, dude. We had no idea you were… Whoa. I need to lie down.”

“How do you think _I_ feel?” Joey leaned back, still beadily eyeing the singer. Then he shrugged. “Still, not the worst lays I’ve ever had. You were pretty alright.”

Wednesday snickered, and Joey grinned at him. 

“So uh… If you don’t mind me asking… How’d you die?”

“I did a John Bonham,” sighed Joey. “Got trashed after a gig. Passed out somewhere. Choked on my own vomit. By the time my friends found me it was too late. Pretty rock and roll, I guess. Kinda pissed I died in such a stupid way, though. I had shit to do, you know?” Joey looked irritated, but this time, at his own actions. 

“You _have_ shit to do,” corrected Wednesday. “You’re back now, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Joey fiddled with his hair, worry furrowing his considerable brow. “I don’t know how this all works.”

“It’s okay, man.” Wednesday patted him on the back. “You can chill with us until you figure it all out.”

Joey cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at Wednesday. “You want me, a corpse, to stay in a bus full of corpse-rapers?” 

Wednesday threw his hands up, as if surrendering. “We promise, no hanky panky. Besides, Eric don’t like ‘em fresh-” 

Joey wrinkled his nose.

“-but you might wanna stay away from Ben.”

“I guess I don’t have much choice.” The corpse let out a defeated sigh. “Where else am I gonna go?”

Wednesday put an arm around the smaller man’s shoulders, in a bid to comfort him. “It’s gonna be alright, pal.”

Joey snorted and ducked away from Wednesday. “Keep your hands off me, ya pervert.”

“Hey, you said yourself I weren’t half bad!” giggled Wednesday. 

“What the Hell is the attraction, anyway?” Joey demanded. “What’s so hot about dead people?”

Wednesday shrugged. “I just like ‘em cold, pale, and beautiful, sweetheart. Don’t know why, just gets my motor running.”

“Shut up,” Joey retorted, with another pronounced eyeroll, but a small smile was threatening to pull at his lips. “And stop calling me that.”

“Calling you what?”

“That. You called me that too, uh. Earlier. You know.” Joey, who had kept up a steady glare this whole time, was now determinedly staring at the floor, avoiding Wednesday’s gaze.

“Not just saying this to butter you up, but out there in the moonlight, you were the prettiest little corpse I ever did see.” Wednesday decided to try his luck, sliding his arm around the dead boy’s waist his time. “That long raven hair, that lovely pale face… And your ice cold touch, it felt so right.”

Joey sniggered. “You’re so fucking cheesy, man. You sound like an Addams.”

“Why do you think I’m called Wednesday?”

Wednesday realised with a thrill down his spine that his new friend wasn’t pulling away. He pressed his advantage.

“Would it help if I said you were… _drop dead gorgeous_?”

Joey burst out laughing. “Go to Hell!” 

Was it his imagination, or was the dead man leaning into his embrace? Wednesday could feel Joey’s frigid flesh pressed up against his side, and it was driving him wild. 

“Man, I hope there’s a fucking shower on this bus. I still have your cum in my cold dead ass.” Joey winced. 

Wednesday let out an involuntary moan at the thought. “Oh, baby, don’t tease me like that.”

Joey blinked back, wide-eyed, then punched him in the arm. “You fucking weirdo.”

Now or never, Wednesday decided. He leaned in with a wicked smile and murmured, “Just one little kiss?”

Joey smirked. “Well, you were pretty good at it back there. Rest of them didn’t bother.”

“Ah, see, they’re not a gentleman, like I am,” Wednesday purred. 

“Gentlemen don’t go around raping corpses,” Joey pointed out.

It had been quite nice, to be fair. Wednesday had kissed him with such finesse. Joey tilted his head up, and pressed his lifeless lips to the other man’s warm ones.

Wednesday moaned again. It didn’t take him long to lose all reason, with the object of his desires right in front of him, ready and willing. He dragged Joey towards him, burying one hand in his long, black hair, and clutching for dear life at the prominent bone of his hip. He kissed the dead boy, full and deep, bowling him over on the bunk until Joey was flat on his back. Wednesday was hunched over him, looming over the smaller man once again, as he had hours before. But this time, Joey was kissing back, making little desperate whimpers into his mouth, his icy arms wrapped around Wednesday’s middle. Joey tasted like death, dying, and the dead. 

Fuck, was he hard. Probably harder than he’d even been in his entire life. How many times had he ever jerked off thinking about this? Too many to count. Dreams really did come true. 

“I do miss the moaning,” Wednesday admitted, after he’d finally pulled away to breathe. Joey hadn’t needed to.

Joey left one last lick on Wednesday’s lip ring with his cold tongue. “Best of both worlds, huh?” 

God, he was so fucking hot.

“Please,” Wednesday begged, whispering against Joey’s pale, blue lips. “Please, let me fuck you.”

Joey gave him one more eyeroll, and chuckled breathlessly. 

“Fine. Just get me the fuck out of these clothes. I don’t know what my family was thinking burying me in these.”

* * *

Acey, Ben and Eric awoke late the next day with the worst hangovers they’d had in a while, their heads pounding mercilessly. Eric, being the most coherent one, began to hydrate, chugging water in a futile attempt to make the pain go away. Acey, meanwhile, curled into the foetal position, while Ben patted him on the back.

“Where’s Weds?” Acey asked, in a small voice. Ben shrugged. He had bigger concerns right now, like emptying his bladder. He got up to piss, assembling his long limbs into motion with difficulty. Perhaps he’d look for Wednesday along the way.

After he’d relieved himself, he wandered past their sleeping area, noticing that Wednesday’s bunk had the curtains pulled closed. 

“Dude, come on, we have a show later, get up,” Ben ordered, tugging aside the curtains, and then letting out a yell. 

“What the - oh come on, Weds!”

“What’s up?” Eric called, attempting to be as quiet as possible, because Acey was cringing beside him.

“We said no corpses on the bus, dude!” Ben shouted. 

Wednesday was slowly coming to, which wasn’t hard given the racket Ben was making. He’d fallen asleep cuddling with Joey, who was the little spoon. His nose was buried in the zombie’s soft hair, inhaling the scent of the grave as he’d drifted off to sleep. He’d never slept better in his life.

He squinted at the daylight filtering into the bus. As he shifted to sit up, it was obvious to his bandmate that both he and his companion were both very naked. Ben goggled at the pair of them.

“Motherfucker, is that the guy from last night??” 

At that moment, Joey, disturbed by the sound of multiple voices, opened his big, milky blue eyes, only to meet the gaze of one very confused drummer.

Ben screamed.

“Shut up, dude!” Acey wailed, clutching his head. Every loud noise was sending a bolt of pain through his poor skull. Eric got up to investigate, just in time to see that Ben was backing away from Wednesday’s bunk in horror, pointing at it like he’d seen a ghost.

“What is it?” Eric asked, before peeking into Wednesday’s bunk, and came face to face with the beautiful corpse from last night, who was sitting up now, and staring at him with an unamused expression. 

Eric screamed.

Acey had had it. “What the fuck is your problem?!” he whined, then climbed to his feet, unsteadily, and wobbled over to where the other two were gaping at Wednesday’s bunk like a couple of dumbasses, determined to see what the fuss was all about.

And there he was, the dead body he’d fucked last night, sitting in Wednesday’s bed and clutching a blanket to his nudity, blinking at the three of them, when he was supposed to be lying six feet under.

Acey screamed, and fainted clean away. 

“Explain? Before I lose my shit?” Ben demanded.

“Too late,” Eric whispered, fearful.

Wednesday smacked his palm to his face.

“Jesus Christ, guys... band meeting in five, okay? We need to get dressed.”

* * *

Wednesday and Joey sat opposite the other three. Wednesday’s leather pants were a little roomy on Joey, who was a lot shorter, but the frontman's Mötley Crüe shirt fit him just fine. After slathering a little eyeliner on, he almost felt like himself again. Meanwhile, Eric had dumped a bottle of water on Acey’s face, and the guitarist had come round.

“So uh, it turns out that our friend here isn’t… as dead as we thought he was,” finished Wednesday lamely. 

Joey waved. “Thanks for not bothering to bury me again. Made it easier to get out.”

“And it also turns out that this here is Joey, as in Jordison.”

“From The Rejects?!” Acey interjected, looking mortified. 

“And Slipknot. Shit. We _are_ in the middle of Iowa…” Ben muttered.

“I thought that name on the gravestone looked familiar!” Eric’s eyes were the size of dinner plates.

“You’re all fucking idiots,” Joey proclaimed, his nose upturned. This bunch of horny morons hadn’t even realised who he was before laying into his corpse. 

“I am _so_ sorry-”

“Dude I had no idea-”

“Please don’t kill us-”

“Guys, it’s okay.” Wednesday pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. “In fact, we were talking last night, and I have an idea. Meet band member number 5.”

“What??” 

“You can’t be serious!”

“Come on, man.”

“It makes sense,” Wednesday insisted. Singing Hetfield style don’t suit me anyway, and Joey’s damn good on a guitar.”

“How are we going to pretend Joey fucking Jordison isn’t back from the dead?” Eric pointed out. “Someone’s gonna recognise him.”

“Lotta makeup,” Wednesday answered. He and Joey had lain awake, discussing this all morning, before they’d fallen asleep together. “Probably shave off his eyebrows. And maybe some crossdressing.”

“I can go by Nathan,” shrugged Joey. “Pretty common. It’s my first name, anyway.” 

“This is fucking _metal_ ,” Ben concluded, practically vibrating out of his seat with excitement. “A dead guitarist? I’m so down.”

Acey nodded his enthusiasm. “I’ve seen the guy play. I’m in.”

“We already do our makeup to look like zombies on stage, anyway. We’ll just lean into the whole dead angle. He’ll fit right in.” Eric looked at the new guy thoughtfully, then squinted at the others, suspicion in his eyes. “Just try and keep your hands off the poor boy, you horndogs.”

“Too late,” Wednesday muttered under his breath, and Joey jabbed him in the side with his elbow. “Ow!”

Ben groaned. “So fucking jealous.”

“Alright alright, meeting fucking adjourned,” Joey declared. The boys were gawking at him a little too intently. 

As the other three wandered off to tend to their various bodily functions, Joey sat back down on Wednesday’s bunk, and sighed.

“That went well.”

“Can’t blame them, really.” Wednesday waved carelessly at his new bandmate. “All that beautiful, pale, cold flesh is just too irresistible.”

The zombie scoffed. “Ugh, give me a break.” Joey shoved him again, but it didn’t stop Wednesday from waggling his eyebrows at the other musician.

“Might even write a song about you, sweetheart.” Wednesday winked.

True to his word, and to no one’s surprise, Wednesday put not one, but two songs on their first record about banging the dead. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joey runs into the last person he wants to see from his past life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grab tissues y’all, it’s about to be sad boi hours.

It hadn’t taken Joey long to learn Wednesday’s guitar parts at all. Really, he was the perfect accompaniment to all four of them, the missing jigsaw piece they never knew they needed. Joey was a treasure trove of musical knowledge. He would nerd out about drums with Ben for hours on end, jam with Acey in his spare time in the back of the bus, and workshop bass lines with Eric whenever the other wanted feedback.

Hell, half the time, the guys barely remembered he technically wasn’t alive. And when you’ve all participated in a homo-necro-sexual gangbang together, boundaries just weren’t so much of a thing any more. Joey never imagined all of them could get on this well, given their highly unusual introduction to each other. But hey, they were the Murderdolls. If anything, it was incredibly on brand.

They’d all bonded in a short space of time, particularly him and Wednesday. They were the new era of Terror Twins, just as Nikki and Tommy had been in the 80s. The others would jokingly accuse Wednesday of hogging Joey, just as he’d done that first night they’d all met, but it was clear the two had clicked from the get-go.

The months rolled by like that, with the same comfortable rhythm. Play shows, get trashed after, rinse and repeat. Their chemistry on stage was undeniable. They were a unit. They were a gang. Everything seemed to be going swimmingly. Their manager had even booked them the Download Festival in the UK, one of their biggest gigs to date. 

There was just one little snag.

Joey picked up the festival flyer their manager had dropped off, and pointed to a band name. Wednesday didn’t think it was possible for Joey to look even more ashen than he already did. 

“That’s Corey’s old band,” Joey explained, quietly. 

Acey put down his celebratory bottle of Jack, hesitant. “As in, from Slipknot? With you?”

“Yeah,” mumbled Joey. “If anyone could recognise me, apart from my family, it’s him and James.”

The guys from Slipknot had been careful never to show their faces in public, so their fans would never have recognised Joey behind the mask, but inside the nine was a different story. 

Ben picked up the flyer and studied it. “I guess Slipknot decided not to continue on without you.” 

“That’s flattering,” the smaller man muttered.

“It’ll be fine,” Wednesday declared. “It’s a big festival, we’ll just park on the opposite side of the Donington Park from those guys.”

Joey was still looking worried, and Wednesday decided it was time for a last resort. He began scrabbling around in a drawer, until he pulled out a razor.

“You know what time it is. Say goodbye to those eyebrows.”

Joey’s eyes widened in horror. “Be strong,” Eric whispered, patting him on the back.

* * *

A week and two less eyebrows later, they were all set for Download. Joey had no idea butterflies in his stomach was a condition that could persist after death, but they were definitely fluttering around when their tour bus was finally in Donington. He wouldn’t leave the bus until it was time to go backstage, and made sure to slather on more makeup than the already considerable amount he would put on for gigs. 

“Alright, ladies. How do I look?” Joey asked the rest of the ‘Dolls in the dressing room, who were also busy painting their faces. 

“Drop dead gorgeous, that’s for sure,” sang Wednesday. 

“Shut up, dude,” Joey retorted, jabbing him with an eyeliner pencil, but cracked a smile all the same.

“If I didn’t know you, I wouldn’t recognise you with all of that on,” confirmed Eric, nodding his approval. 

“Good enough for me,” mumbled Joey to himself, so anxious he thought he might throw up. 

The gig itself went without a hitch. Really, it was one of their best to date, the biggest audience they’d ever played to. Once up on stage, all his nerves faded away. Just him, his band, and his guitar. Nothing else mattered. The crowd’s energy was electrifying. At times like this, he felt alive once more, like his terrible accident had never happened. He looked over at Wednesday mid-song. Now that Joey was on guitar, it gave Wednesday the freedom to run around like a maniac and work the crowd like he’d wanted to. It was fascinating to watch. Wednesday caught his eye, shot him a toothy grin and blew him a kiss.

“Get a room!” Acey yelled, grinning as he bounced past them like a puppy who’d been fed coffee. Behind him, Eric was giggling and mouthing the words “HE’S JUST JEALOUS” at his other guitarist. Joey laughed, shaking his head. 

High off the adrenaline after the gig, they felt invincible, bathing in the feeling that nothing could go wrong, and that all was right in the world. Joey was even in a good enough mood to sign things for fans, after he and Ben had been accosted as they left the backstage area. He was careful to spell his name ‘Nathan’, the alias he was adopting these days. The other three had fucked off in search of sex, drugs, and alcohol, their reward for a job well done.

Finally, they’d been able to excuse themselves and slip away, wandering back to their tour bus. Beside his drummer, who towered over him at six and a half feet tall on a bad day, Joey looked like a child even with platform boots on. It was something he liked to complain about. A lot.

“I bet your mom made you drink bovine growth hormones as a child.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you’re a midget,” Ben cackled. “Did you like, shrink from decomp or something?”

“Shut up, asshole!” Joey laughed, elbowing him, and only catching him in the hip. 

And then, it all went downhill.

“Joey?!”

From behind them, they heard a yell, which made them both turn around. They saw a figure in the distance, and when Joey realised who it was and what he was yelling, his stomach dropped into his ass.

“Oh, shit,” Ben muttered under his breath.

“Be cool,” Joey hissed, even though he felt the very opposite. At least his once-pristine makeup was smeared into a black, grey and white mess across his face, which thankfully obscured his features even more.

“JOEY, WAIT!”

A young man with long, dirty blonde hair, tattoos all over, and an unusually thick neck ran towards them, out of breath, his face shining with tears. It was the very last person Joey wanted to see. 

“Joey,” Corey sobbed. “Joey, I know it’s you, tell me it’s you…”

“Uh, you got the wrong guy, buddy,” Ben jumped in, hurriedly. 

“Fucking BULLSHIT! That’s Joey!” the man insisted, almost hysterically. He turned to the smaller man, who was trying not to let his face betray his emotions. “Please, I’m sorry, Joey, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there… it’s my fault, I should’ve… I didn’t know, I’m a fucking idiot!” 

The crying man, still rambling like a lunatic, lurched forward to try and grab Joey. Ben hastily stepped before his smaller bandmate, tucking the guitarist behind him like a mother hen.

“Whoa, hold on, dude, just calm down, okay?”

More shouting from some way off. Ben looked up. Another figure, this one much taller, was sprinting towards them as well. Joey clutched at the back of Ben’s shirt, mortified. It was James Root, the other person he’d been desperately trying to avoid at this festival. 

“Corey? Corey, goddamnit, it’s not him!”

Jim, with his long legs, caught up with his singer in a flash, just as Corey was threatening Ben, who would not let him near the diminutive guitarist. Corey did not seem to care that The Ghoul was almost a foot taller than he was. 

“Get out of my way, or I swear I’m gonna KICK YOUR ASS-”

Jim, with the air of someone who did this twice a week, wrapped his arms around the distraught Corey and held him back. Corey began thrashing against Jim’s arms, trying to get to Joey.

“This guy doesn’t even look like him!” shouted Jim, fighting to restrain his friend. 

“LET ME GO! You think you can fool me with that makeup? With those stupid white contacts? I KNOW Joey,” Corey seethed, still struggling. “I’ve seen him play guitar for YEARS! I know what Joey looks like playing the FUCKING guitar, okay?!”

“That’s not Joey, man!” 

“LOOK, Jamie, just look, it’s fucking HIM, I swear to fucking GOD WHY WON’T ANY OF YOU LISTEN TO ME?!” Corey screamed. 

“I’m so sorry,” Jim apologised to the two of them. “He does this sometimes. He’s… He’s not in his right mind.”

“It’s cool, man, we’re just gonna, ah…” Ben jerked his thumb towards their tour bus. Enough was enough. Ben turned, still blocking Joey from view, and marched them back towards their shelter, getting the fuck away from those two as fast as they could. Joey fought hard not to look back, but it was painfully difficult when he could hear Corey howling with grief.

“JOEY! Joey, please, please come back, it’s all my fault, I couldn’t save you, I’m sorry… I’m SORRY, I swear…”

Both of them could hear Corey’s cries trail off as his bandmate hauled him away. Ben slammed the door shut in a hurry. Joey fell onto the nearest couch and buried his face in his hands.

“Need something strong,” Ben muttered, then reached over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself the last of their brandy, the fancy shit. “Want some?”

“Can’t drink, remember?” Joey reminded him. It was one of the biggest things he missed about being alive. 

“I’ll drink your share then.” 

Joey let out a shaky laugh. “All yours, dude.”

Ben downed two shots in a row, then glanced back at his bandmate. Joey was shivering, and not from the cold. 

“Hey.” Ben sat beside him, and gave him a gentle nudge. “Bring it in.” 

He held his arms out. Joey inched closer, settling against his side. Being so tall, Ben gave the best hugs, enveloping Joey in his long limbs and making him feel safe. Even standing up, Joey was small enough that the top of his head only just brushed Ben’s chin.

“I got you, dude.”

Joey let Ben hold him, as he tried to process what just happened. Seeing Corey again had been bad enough, but to see how stricken by loss the man was… it was heartbreaking. Somehow, he’d never realised his death would affect his old friend this much. 

“Booze o’clock, fuckers!”

They heard footsteps, and the door to the bus opened. Joey groaned and curled up further into a tight ball against Ben. 

“It’s okay,” murmured Ben. “Just Wednesday.”

Wednesday approached the pair of them, dumping a bag in front of the liquor cabinet as he passed. He appeared to be the only one returning to the bus. Their singer took in the odd sight of Joey clinging to Ben in distress, and the concerned look in Ben’s eyes.

“Y’all alright? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Pretty much. Ran into Corey Taylor and Jim Root on the way back,” Ben informed their frontman with a grave look on his face.

“Motherfucker. You always run into the people you’re trying to avoid at these things, don’t you.”

“Where’s Tweedledee and Tweedledum?” the drummer asked.

“Off trying to chase skirt at the local morgue,” shrugged Wednesday. “Decided to hang back, guard the booze and wait for you guys.”

A knock on the door of their bus made them all start. Ben peeked out of the window.

“It’s Jim.” He swore. “I’ll deal with this.” He carefully disentangled himself from Joey, who lay slumped against the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling with a hollow expression, feeling every bit as dead as he looked. Wednesday took the zombie’s cold hand in his and laced their fingers together, trying to offer some comfort. 

Ben opened the door, and sure enough, came face to face with Stone Sour’s guitarist.

“Hey, um. Can we talk?” 

“Uh, sure.” Ben stepped out, and shut the door to the bus quietly. He stood next to Jim, who was just about as tall as he was. It was refreshing to be able to see eye to eye with someone for a change.

“I just wanted to apologise for just now,” Jim began, shifting his weight, awkward. “It’s been a difficult time for all of us.”

“No, dude, I completely get it,” he assured the other musician. “I heard the news. Really sorry for your loss.”

“Corey must have caught some of you guys’ set. We came back, found our entire tour bus trashed. Got it into his head about your bandmate there. Tell him sorry from me.”

“He’s a little freaked out, but he’ll live,” Ben said with a dismissive wave. “So um, no more Slipknot, huh?”

“Nope. Nobody wanted to keep going.” Jim exhaled a heavy sigh, staring at the ground. “Corey and I tried throwing ourselves back into music anyway, started up Stone Sour again, but… sometimes it’s not enough.” 

“I get it, man. Don’t blame him at all.” Ben patted him on the shoulder, full of sympathy.

“It’s just…” Jim rubbed his neck, trying to find the right words. “We all took it pretty hard, but Corey’s taking it the hardest. He and Joey were… they were close. And um… he’s the one that found Joey’s… that found Joey.”

“Oh, shit,” Ben breathed. No wonder Corey was so upset. 

“Yeah. Some nights he hits the bottle a little too hard, and then every dude with long black hair starts looking like Joey.” Jim waved a careless hand. “Your guitarist isn’t even that short.”

“Sure ain’t,” the drummer agreed, silently thanking the lifts that were hidden in Joey’s platform boots, which made him nearly five inches taller than usual. “No harm done, man. Just take care of him, yeah?”

“That’s the plan,” Jim replied, managing a small smile back, as he turned to go. “Sorry to bother you guys. Have a good one.”

“Nah, forget about it. See ya.”

Ben climbed back onto the bus, and without asking, knew by the looks on their faces that the other two had heard every word through the open window. 

“He found me,” Joey whispered. “Corey found my body. He was yelling ‘It’s my fault’. That’s what he meant.”

Joey had never known, of course. He’d been dead by then. His best friend was the one who’d found him lying on the floor, after he’d choked on his own vomit. None of them had noticed until it was too late, because they’d all been off partying post-gig, and Corey was usually partying the hardest of all. Now his friend was blaming himself for what happened, for not getting to Joey sooner. 

_I couldn’t save you._

Joey squeezed his eyes shut tight.

“I gotta go get some air. Gonna watch some of the other bands.” Ben stood, stretching, and snatched a bottle of whiskey on his way out. “You guys gonna be okay?”

“Eventually,” was Joey’s deadpan response. 

“You go have fun. We’ll hold down the fort.” Wednesday waved as Ben saluted, before hopping off the bus. 

They sat in awkward silence for the longest time. Looking for something to do, Wednesday got up, grabbed a pack of makeup wipes, and gestured at Joey’s face. 

“Gonna help you clean all this shit off, all right?”

The guitarist made a noncommittal noise. Wednesday took that as a yes, and began wiping his face paint off with gentle strokes. 

Nobody said another word, for a good several minutes, until Joey announced, “I can’t cry.”

Wednesday blinked. “You can if you want. I ain’t judging.”

“No, I mean I literally can’t cry, because I’m a corpse,” Joey clarified. “Wish I could,” he continued, quietly.

Wednesday shoved the pile of dirty wipes aside, having cleaned off as much makeup as he could, and settled back on the couch next to his friend. 

“Wanna talk about it?” 

Joey sat up straighter, and took in a deep breath he didn’t need.

“Of all the people to find my fucking body,” he muttered. “It had to be Corey.”

“You guys were close, huh?” Wednesday said, his voice soft. Joey nodded.

“We’d been in bands together for years by that point, and Slipknot… It’s hard to explain to anyone who’s never been a part of it. We were brothers.” 

Slipknot had just experienced a meteoric rise to fame after the massive success of their first, self-titled album, when they’d lost their drummer, the heartbeat of their entire sound. Without Joey, Slipknot had collapsed in on itself. 

Joey huffed out a sad little ghost of a laugh. “Corey always said he wanted Slipknot to headline Download one day.”

“Poor guy.” Wednesday shook his head, morosely. “I mean, poor you, too.”

“Me?” Joey blinked in confusion.

“Yeah, dummy. They lost you… but you lost everyone.” Wednesday gave Joey’s icy hand a quick squeeze. “Your friends, your family.”

“Huh… I guess I never thought about it like that,” mused the dead man, looking pensive.

“Do you miss ‘em?”

“Sometimes. I wonder how my mom and my sisters are doing. But it’s not like I can send them a postcard.” The zombie snorted. “It’s like being in fucking witness protection. New name, new identity, new band.” 

It was something Joey tried not to think about too much, the life he’d left behind in Iowa. Instead, he slouched against his dreaded friend, face buried in Wednesday’s chest. The high from the show had vanished, leaving him drained and feeling small. The singer slid an arm around his bandmate, stroking his fingers through those long, dark tresses to relax him. Wednesday loved the way the undead musician’s silky hair always had the faint scent of a fresh grave, even though Joey was very self-conscious about keeping clean so he didn’t reek of stale cadaver. 

“Are you… are you smelling me?” Joey squinted up at his friend. 

Wednesday paused mid-inhale. “Is it my fault you smell so good?”

“Fucking weirdo,” chuckled Joey. 

The silence turned a little more easy, as they lay tangled together on the couch, and it was a while before Joey spoke up. 

“I just hope we don’t run into Corey again.”

“We’ll be out of here first thing tomorrow,” Wednesday reassured him, rubbing the smaller man’s back. He kissed Joey on the forehead, leaving a faint black lip print. 

“Thank you,” Joey told his bandmate, with a sigh, feeling the tension seeping from his dead body.

Wednesday’s forehead scrunched up in confusion. 

”What for?”

“Honestly? I don’t really know what I’d do without you guys.”

“Aw, shucks.” Wednesday smiled. “We love you too.”

Joey looked up at Wednesday, cloudy blue eyes meeting the other’s deep brown ones. “I mean it, Weds. Right now, I don’t wanna do anything but play in a band with you guys. Fuck, if I couldn’t play music I’d probably just try to kill myself. Again.”

“You really wanna leave your beautiful, beautiful corpse unattended around us?” Wednesday smirked. Joey glared back.

“On second thought…”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How exactly did Joey rise from the grave? One band has the answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, if anyone can raise the dead, it's freaking Nergal from Behemoth.

_ Backstage, the chatter of roadies and other musicians washed over the three of them, because they let it. Instead, the man with the grey eyes watched one particular, diminutive drummer, with heaviness in his heart. The boy was buzzing with adrenaline and bantering with his other bandmates, about to take the stage, not realising it was the last performance he would ever give with them. The man with the white eyes eyed his fellow percussionist too, aware of the lad’s fate. The man with the black eyes, the most physically imposing of them, sighed and shook his head. They were not all-knowing, but they might as well be.  _

_ Now, they stood in the wings, watching a fledgling band take the world by storm in a way that would inspire the masses, just as they had years ago. It was everything they wanted in the world, for the world needed it, but all was not right in it, not tonight.  _

_ They watched in silence, as the band tore through their set, nailing each song with more animalistic ferocity than the people had ever seen from them. The audience writhed like so many sickly, pale maggots, screaming to the rafters with unbridled rage and joy, a sound that left the modest halls ringing long after the band had taken their bows. _

_ The tiny drummer bounced past them again, when all nine came off stage, howling their success to the moon. Nergal remembered when he was that young, and filled with the kind of anger that made you want to tear everything to shreds and make art from it. He had so much to say. He still did.  _

_ As did this young man. This young man who would never again pick up those drumsticks.  _

_ Not unless... _

_ “You aren’t going to interfere, are you?” Inferno rumbled to his colleague in their native Polish. _

_ “What? Me? Interfere?” drawled Nergal, with a dismissive wave. “Absolutely not.”  _

_ Orion crossed his arms over his chest, and rolled his black eyes at his frontman. “Sure you’re not.”  _

* * *

“Another festival!” crowed Wednesday, bursting into the diner. “Check it out!”

Wednesday slammed a flyer down by Acey’s plate of waffles. His unused knife rattled on the table, since he’d taken to just spearing said waffles whole and shoving them in his mouth. Wednesday slid in next to him, stealing a strip of bacon from his plate. Acey glowered. He’d remember this.

“No Stone Sour,” Wednesday added to Joey, a little softer. “I checked.”

Joey nodded, a quiet show of his gratitude. He had his feet up on the booth opposite him, watching the rest of them eat. It was rather boring, since he couldn’t consume food himself. Sometimes he missed it - those waffles did look good, glistening with butter and honey.

“BEEHMUT!” Ben yelled excitedly through a mouthful of eggs.

Joey wrinkled his nose in disgust. “How ‘bout you chew, then swallow, then talk?”

Ben did just that, and then yelled again, “Fucking BEHEMOTH, dude! They’re headlining!”

“Yeah, they’re pretty nice guys,” Joey remarked, casually inspecting his fingernails. 

“Oh my god. You’ve MET them?” His drummer goggled at him in awe, and Joey couldn't help but smirk a little at Ben’s unbridled fanboying. 

“We opened for them once. With Slipknot, I mean.” The zombie paused to consider his memories. “Talked drums with Inferno a little, he’s really intense. Nergal’s chill though.”

Eric used this opportunity while Ben was being starstruck next to him to steal the bottle of maple syrup the drummer had been hogging, dousing his pancakes in them.

“Interesting lineup, if we’re next to them. Death metal  _ and _ horror punk?”

Wednesday threw his hands up in praise. “Fuck yeah. It’s gonna be the most Satanic motherfucking festival in the history of rock and roll.”

Joey grinned. Some things were worth being undead for. 

* * *

Ben clapped his tiny bandmate on the shoulder so hard the short guitarist’s knees buckled. Joey grimaced, mostly because he knew what was coming. 

“Joey, you really  _ killed  _ it on stage tonight, dude!” 

Acey giggled and chimed in a off-kilter Cockney accent. “That ‘e was! ‘E was  _ dead  _ good on the guitar!”

“Every fucking night…” Joey groaned. 

Their bassist rolled his eyes, his red and black tufts of hair swaying as he shook his head. 

Wednesday chortled, arm around his zombie friend, who was even less amused than Eric. 

Nergal was already in full warpaint and armour, when he saw the gang of red and black horror rockers clamber off stage after their show, cheering and whooping and falling all over each other, already fiending for drink and drugs. As a raucous Wednesday passed by and hailed him, Nergal handed the singer a bottle of his best vodka from home.

“Good job, lads.” Nergal laughed, clapping him on the back. “Don’t drink it all at once, now.”

“Thanks, dad,” Wednesday cackled, before tipping the stuff straight down his throat. “Whoo! That’ll put some hair on your fuckin’ chest.” 

“Your guitarist is exceptional,” Nergal continued, conversationally cheerful, yet his intent was anything but. 

Confused, Wednesday squinted at the rest of the guys. They did have two guitarists after all. “Which one are you talking about?” 

“You know the one. Preternaturally so, one might say!”

Wednesday followed the Polish frontman’s gaze, only to find he was eyeing Joey. He blinked. That was a weird thing to mention. Maybe the guy was just weird. He took another swig of alcohol.

“You mean uh… Nathan?”

“Indeed. Reminds me of a young musician I once met.” Nergal looked at Wednesday with a twinkle in his pale eyes. “I wonder whatever became of him…”

Wednesday felt his stomach flood with ice, and was lost for words. He didn’t need to respond, however.

“Nergal!”

Inferno’s voice boomed, but it was his face that was like thunder. He and Orion were waiting for him by the mouth of the stage.

“Duty calls.” Nergal smiled with serpentine slyness, then turned to go, leaving Wednesday dazed.

“The fuck was that about?”

“The fuck was what about?” Eric asked, as he swiped the bottle of vodka Wednesday had been hogging, noticing his bandmate’s befuddled expression. 

“That dude…” Wednesday stared after the band, now taking their place onstage in front of a screaming crowd. “I think he knows about Joey.”

His bassist narrowed his eyes, his forehead crinkling with worry. 

“You mean… but… how would he know?”

Wednesday pointed at the sinister, hooded Nergal, who was now growling his Satanic verse at the audience, demanding their devotion, and receiving it in spades. Their performance looked more like Black Mass than a metal concert, with flames roaring behind them, and metal sigils on their mic stands. 

“Okay,” Eric conceded, “I see your point.”

* * *

“Oh, that crowd! It was wonderful! I could feed off that energy for days.” 

Nergal beamed, as the three sauntered through the backstage area. Nothing like the satisfaction of a job well done, he thought. 

“Sure, but could we tone it down with the pyro?” Inferno grumbled. “It’s boiling behind the kit.”

“Alright, alright,” the singer agreed, just to placate his bandmate. “Less fire and brimstone it is.”

“I nearly lost my eyebrows,” Orion piped up, sulking. 

“Well, don’t stand so close to it then,” snarked his frontman, as he pushed open the door to their dressing room, only to find that it wasn’t empty. He came face to face with Wednesday and Joey, leaning against his dressing table, which was still littered with makeup. 

“Boys!” called Nergal jovially, as the others sat down to take the paint off their face. “Can’t say this is a surprise. What can I do for you?”

The two of them fidgeted in discomfort. Finally, Wednesday spoke. 

“You know, don’t you?” 

“I know a great many things,” was Nergal’s cryptic response, as was the habit of his kind. “You might have to be a little more specific there.”

Wednesday scratched his head. “About uh, Joey’s condition.” 

“Ah!” Nergal smiled. “His condition of being, shall we say… less than alive.” 

“Yeah, about that.” Joey crossed his arms over his chest, a grim look on his face. “How do you know about it? And why didn’t I stay dead?”

“Tak,  _ Adam _ .” Orion grinned, using Nergal’s human alias. He’d gone through three makeup wipes already, all dirty grey. “Why isn’t the boy dead still?”

Nergal sighed. Time to face the music. Quite literally. 

“Well, you see…”

* * *

_ It was chilly, for an April night, especially for them. But there was work to be done. The cold earth crunched under their heavy boots as they made their way through the graveyard, a silent procession that nobody was there to witness.  _

_ “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” Inferno asked, his milk white gaze steady on Nergal’s pensive expression.  _

_ “If it isn’t, we’ll know soon enough,” was the resigned reply, as Nergal took his place at the foot of the grave, and his compatriots stood by its sides, to his left and right.  _

_ “Nothing flashy this time,” Orion reminded him. “Or we will be here all night.” _

_ “Well, we need some flame at least,” Nergal protested. He liked to make an effort, usually, even if it meant going overboard. “It’s traditional. Also, I can’t see shit.” _

_ With a ring of fat black candles lit around them, they joined hands, heads bowed, their arms describing an inverted triangle held over the grave of the boy. Nergal’s ashen eyes were fixed in the headstone before him, lost in his thoughts.  _

_ Then he began to pray.  _

_ “Morning Star, Phosphoros, thee I invoke… O my father, hear me, and make this spirit subject unto me…” _

_ No unnecessary fanfare, per Orion’s request. Nergal felt a push back in his mind, in his core, that let him know he was being listened to, and that his request was being entertained. He looked up at the other two and nodded.  _

_ The three of them began to chant in unison.  _

**_“I am He who lives, and was dead, and behold, I am alive forevermore…”_ **

* * *

“ _ You  _ brought me back?” Joey goggled, trying to form a coherent sentence with his jaw still on the floor. “But… but why?”

Nergal, his face still painted, leaned against the wall for support. He sighed a heavy noise. “That night you passed. Do you remember it?” 

“Parts of it… I know what happened after the gig. I don’t remember the gig itself much.” Joey shrugged. “Another day at the office.”

“A great day at the office,” Nergal corrected him. “I know. I was there.”

Wednesday’s face lit up as he put two and two together, gesticulating wildly. “That was the gig you opened for them, with Slipknot!”

The other frontman nodded. “We saw too much wasted potential to let lie six feet under.”

“Whoa, hang on, you knew I was going to die?” Joey asked, incredulous. 

Nergal smirked. “I told you, I know a great many things.”

Wednesday huffed in frustration. “If you knew what was gonna happen, couldn’t you just stop him dying in the first place?”

“That we cannot interfere with,” Nergal answered delicately. 

“Because you never interfere with anything else,” Inferno muttered under his breath in their native tongue, with deadpan sarcasm, not taking his eyes off his mirror as he cleaned his face. 

“Hey, this was a committee decision,” Nergal protested over his shoulder in Polish. “Anyway, once he had shuffled off his mortal coil, he was free game. And rather than let him rot away in the cold Iowan ground, is it not better that Nathan Jonas Jordison is here still with us, making music the world sorely needs?”

“Can’t disagree with that, really,” Wednesday mumbled, looking at his bandmate. There was no way he’d give up what they had with Joey. The Murderdolls wouldn’t have turned out the way it was without Joey in it. Hell, they wouldn’t even be called the Murderdolls. 

“Next million dollar question: how?” demanded Joey. “Last I checked people can’t just resurrect the fucking dead, for fuck’s sake.”

“Ah, but we are not ‘people’. As for how, I am not at liberty to discuss that with you two.” Nergal chose his words with careful diplomacy. “But I think you know the answer to that already.”

“Coooool,” Wednesday breathed in a hushed voice. Then a thought occurred to him, and he gasped. “Oh my god,” Wednesday whispered in awe. “Are you like... his dad now?”

Nergal’s slate-coloured eyes widened. From behind him, Orion, who had been in the middle of a sip of water, spluttered. Inferno roared with laughter. 

“His spirit is subject to your will, Nergal!” the drummer pointed out. “You are basically his parent.”

“We resurrected him, not adopted him,” Nergal countered. “Technically, we own him.” But his words fell on the deaf ears of his amused bandmates. 

“Congratulations on becoming a papa,” Orion cooed, patting his bandmate on the back. 

Wednesday elbowed his undead friend, who shot him a glare back. “Ben is going to be so fucking jealous, dude.”

Nergal sighed and turned to grab the makeup wipes from his dressing table. 

“So how did you two meet, then?” he asked, mostly to change the subject. 

“Uhhh… We, um...” Wednesday stammered, floundering, turning towards his bandmate for guidance.

Joey replied with a dirty look. “You don’t wanna know.”

“Well, you seem to have found a band fresh out of the grave,” Nergal continued, scrubbing at his face, eyeing the pair of them with renewed interest. “I’m simply curious as to how that happened.”

Wednesday squirmed under his gaze as those inquisitive granite eyes pierced through him. Joey buried his face in his hands and groaned.

“It’s a funny story, really…”


End file.
